by Tim Champlin
The mule brigade of infantry led the way in the gray dawn, followed by the orderly columns of cavalry. We wound down the valley of the south fork of the Rosebud. The valley continued as beautiful as it had the day before—green pine trees on the hills, green grass carpeting the riverbank and slopes. Clusters of wild, pink rosebuds dotted the hillsides. We descended the east bank of the stream that was as crooked as a corkscrew. For a time we would hug the bluffs through a narrow, winding valley where we could hardly see fifty feet ahead, and then we would break out into a wide glade, and I could see General Buck's black charger picking his way along the bank several hundred yards ahead.
Shortly, the Rosebud was joined by its north fork and the entire, runoff-swollen stream turned east and flowed for more than two miles. I was looking ahead where the river started another big bend to the north, when the head of the command reined up and began to dismount. I looked curiously at Wilder as we both stood down from our bays. "What's up? We've only gone about five miles."
"Just a short rest stop. I think the general knows the animals are still tired from that tough march yesterday."
The word was passed back to unsaddle the horses and turn them out to graze. The valley looked very much like the one we had bivouacked in the night before. There were low bluffs all around the wide, shallow valley. The Rosebud flowed sluggishly down the middle, dividing it equally north and south. We were within easy rifle shot from any of the bluffs, and pickets were thrown out on the bluffs around us.
I pulled out my watch. It was just after eight. But the sun was already growing uncomfortably hot in the windless air. Wilder lifted his hat and wiped his brow with a shirtsleeve and we both stretched out on the inviting grass. He pulled out his short pipe and packed a slow smoke. Without speaking, we stared around at the beautiful green valley, drowsing in the summer morning sun. Honeybees buzzed around a bush of sweetbrier a few feet away. The column continued to arrive and dismount. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen.
Some of the men were borrowing and lending chews. Others had broken out a deck of cards. On the opposite side of the river, some of the Indians were racing their ponies up and down, and the soldiers appeared to be betting on the races.
I put my head in my saddle, shaded my eyes with my hat brim, and dozed. I became faintly aware of a distant popping noise.
"Damned Crows off chasing buffalo again," Mac remarked.
I didn't open my eyes.
"Lakota! Lakota! Sioux! Heap Sioux!"
The terrified shouting brought me straight up. About ten of our scouts were plunging their ponies down a steep bluff toward us, yelling and pointing. Humpy, the little Shoshone, rode with one arm hanging limp. And several hundred yards behind them, in pursuit, came a wave of Sioux and Cheyenne in full battle array. In the few seconds I had to look, a ragged line of them topped the skyline of the bluffs and swept down toward our troops—and then more riders came over the ascending ridges farther back.
I ran toward my bay. He shied away up the slope, dragging his reins on the ground. I forced myself to walk slowly toward him, and talked slowly, reassuringly. But his wide eyes and pointed ears were fixed on the tumult behind me. When I got within three yards of him, I dove forward and grabbed the reins. He plunged and dragged me a few feet before I was up and leading him back down to where my saddle lay. Pandemonium had broken loose as men scrambled wildly for their horses and officers were shouting commands. I grabbed the saddle blanket and threw it onto the bay's back, holding his head with my left hand at the same time. Then I heaved the light McClellan saddle into place. I could see flashes of what was going on farther down the valley. The soldiers were not panicked, but were totally surprised by the sudden attack. I could see Wilder just springing into the saddle and yelling for the men of Company B to form up.
Mac had tethered his horse to a nearby bush, so was already in the saddle and rode up to hold my horse's head for me. As I took a few extra seconds to make sure my cinch straps were tight and my rifle was in its scabbard and loaded, I could see over the back of my bay that more and more Indians were pouring over the bluffs to the north and west. They came in lines and clusters and were riding singly, out of every cut and defile in the broken terrain. Most were naked, except for breechclout and paint. Some wore the full eagle-feather warbonnet that flowed out on the wind five or six feet behind the rider. Some of the Cheyenne wore the buffalo cap with the horns still attached, as a charm against death. Others wore half-masks of wolf skins with the pointed ears. Their dark bodies were streaked with yellow and red and black paint. Above the hideous yells, gunfire, and rumbling hooves, I thought I could just make out the shrill squeal of the eagle-wing whistles Wilder had told me the Cheyenne blow as a charm against death when they ride into battle.
The sweat on my back went cold at the sight. It was like hell had split open just beyond the bluffs, and all of its devils were bursting out upon us.
"C'mon, Matt! You gonna stand there all damn day, gawkin'?" someone yelled behind me. It was McPherson.
I leapt onto my horse's back and we trotted toward Wilder, who was trying to get the men of his company into line. Only about half of them had managed to catch and saddle their frightened horses. The cavalry horses were used to gunfire, but the sudden noise had them milling, and the booted troopers were wasting precious minutes chasing them and getting ready to join battle—and, I could see, it was minutes they didn't have. It was going to be close. If the first wave of Indians reached us while most of our men were afoot, they'd ride right through and cut us to pieces.
Then Major Randall, a gray-haired veteran who was chief of scouts, came riding from the left, leading about a hundred Crows and Snakes. Up the slopes they went, most riding bareback, to meet the hated Sioux and give us the vital minutes to get ready. When they were about five hundred yards away from where I sat, the charging lines met. Even from that distance, I could see it was mostly hand-to-hand with knives, lances, and the deadly war clubs. Sun flashed on steel in the swirling dust. It was impossible to make out ally from enemy, even though our Indians wore red armbands to distinguish them.
At the first sign of attack, General Buck had left vague orders to hold the bluffs to the north where the heaviest force seemed to be coming from. Then he had spurred his black charger to the top of a low hill nearby to get a better view of the size of the force coming against him. Colonel Wellsey sat his Morgan, his cool, gray eyes under the shade of his hat brim sizing up the situation. Then, in spite of the uproar around him and the whine of bullets close over our heads, he gave a firm, clear command for the infantry to form a skirmish line to advance on our right, leaving their mules behind. Other cavalry companies he ordered to stay south of the river and guard against surprise attack from the south and east. He ordered Major Zimmer to take three companies to the relief of the Crows and Shoshones, who were locked in battle just to the west of us.
"Companies B, E, I, and M, right into line!"
Mac and I guided our bays alongside Captain Wilder's Company B as the troops swung into line. Colonel Wellsey rose in his stirrups.
"Charge!"
My stomach had been churning with nervous excitement and just plain fear, but I let go the tension with a terrific yell like everyone else as we spurred into a gallop toward the northern bluffs. The ground was rough and steep and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw two or three horses stumble, pitching their riders over their heads. A group of Indians had stopped on the heights, apparently awaiting our charge. We were going too fast to use carbines, but several men on either side of me began firing their revolvers. The Sioux let us get within fifty yards or so before they broke and ran. A cheer went up from the troops. But the Indians had merely retreated out of range, evidently hoping to draw us after them.
As we reached the top of the rocky ridge, Colonel Wellsey ordered a halt. Every fourth man held the horses and the rest of us deployed as dismounted skirmishers to hold the ridgetop. I slipped my Winchester from its boot as I swung down from the saddle and
scrambled along, crouching low. The men on either side of me opened fire on the retreating Indians who were still within carbine range. As I levered a round into the chamber, aimed and fired, I uttered a prayer of thanks for the repeater I carried. Most of the soldiers had only breech-loading single-shot Springfield carbines. The same weapon was carried by the infantry, except in the longer barreled .45-70 rifle model. Even so, the men of the "mule brigade" were deadly accurate up to nine hundred yards with their "long Toms" that carried seventy grains of powder to the cartridge.
The Sioux and Cheyenne stopped on the next ridge and rode up and down out of range, taunting us, slapping their rumps, and motioning for us to come after them. We slacked our fire and I rested on one knee, awaiting orders. I looked around at Mac a few yards away, lying flat on the ground, reloading. I wanted to shout something to him that this sure beat the hell out of a stuffy editorial office, but the noise and the distance were too great, so I just waved and grinned. He responded with a wave of his rifle barrel.
Then orders came up from General Buck to drive the hostiles back from the next ridge. We remounted and charged again. Again the Indians, after a few shots, retreated across a shallow depression to a still higher ridge.
"Stand and fight! You damned red cowards!" one of the younger privates yelled as we reined up, in possession of the second height.
"Don't get cocky, son," the lanky Sergeant Killard said, spurting a stream of brown tobacco juice into the dust. "They ain't afraid of us."
The breeze freshened from the west, and we could hear the roar of battle plainly from a mile or more away. Suddenly the yelling increased from in front of us, and the Indians swung their ponies toward us and countercharged. Our companies braced to meet them, but the hostiles' ragged line divided and swept off wide and down the gulches on each side of our line of bluffs.
"They're flanking us!"
Some of the newer men stood, hesitant. When they saw the Indians were intent on something farther down the valley, the men looked around for orders. These weren't long in coming.
"Prepare to mount! Mount!"
General Buck was too far away to command us effectively by messenger, so Colonel Wellsey ordered a withdrawal. As we swung into our saddles and started back down, we could see from the crest about a half-dozen running fights developing up and down the broken ravines and ridges along a two or three-mile stretch of the open Rosebud valley. Some infantry companies were coolly defending the flank of a grassy hill a half-mile to the east, holding the raiders at long range with their accurate rifle fire.
About half of the Indians we had been chasing a few minutes before were now riding in behind Zimmer's cavalry, catching them in a cross fire. The other half of the group of Indians were after some of our horses that were being held in an isolated grove of trees at the bottom of a ravine some six hundred yards below on our left. But Lieutenant Hogan's gray-horse troop had seen them coming and used one of Crazy Horse's own tricks by hiding in the trees until the Indians were abreast of them. Instead of riding in among a few defenseless horse holders, the warriors were surprised by a terrific crash of rifle fire. Several of them pitched off their ponies and the riderless mounts went running loose in all directions. The rest of the Indians swung back toward us and rode hard for the safety of the hills.
As a reporter, I was getting so interested in watching the progress of the battle that, for a few seconds, I forgot I was in it. Then I saw Colonel Wellsey signaling with his arm, and our Company B swung left with the others to try to cut off the fleeing hostiles. My big bay lunged forward with my heels in his flanks as we charged again. We were at an angle to them as they came uphill toward us, but the distance across the wide ravine was great. What at first looked like a long-range fight gradually changed as we began to close with them. Some of the agile brown bodies were hanging on the off sides of their horses for protection, firing at us under the ponies' necks. It was an amazing demonstration of horsemanship.
As the ravine grew steeper, their tiring horses began to slow, and we were closing with the enemy. I could see the wild eyes and flaring nostrils of the straining Indian ponies. Since I couldn't sight a rifle from the heaving back of my horse, I was firing my Colt on the chance that I might hit something. The wind was whistling in my ears and I could hear the drumming of hooves. The puffs of smoke from the guns told me there was a lot of firing going on, but the muzzle blasts blended into the general roar of sound around me.
As I came within a few yards of one savage, I holstered my Colt and jerked my rifle from its scabbard. I could only see one arm and one leg of the Indian who was hanging off the opposite side of his horse. But I thought I could at least hit his pony by shooting from the hip at close range. Crouching in the saddle, I gripped the stock under my left arm and let go of the reins to steady the bouncing barrel with my right hand.
Just as I squeezed the trigger I felt my horse's head go down. The next instant I was being catapulted from the saddle. For what seemed like a minute, I could feel myself turning a slow somersault in the air. I lost all sense of direction before something slammed into my back and shoulders with stunning concussion, and I felt my arms and legs go limp as I slipped into the black hole of unconsciousness.
What must have been only a few seconds later, my eyes popped open and I was staring at the deep blue sky with some high wispy clouds that seemed to reel in my vision. I moved slightly. Nothing seemed to be broken. I had landed flat on my back and shoulders. My head must have snapped back and hit the ground. Dark forms were going by on both sides of me in a thin veil of dust. I rolled over and tried to rise, but my head was still spinning, and the earth rushed up to meet me. I tried again. This time I got to one knee. As my senses began to clear, I saw riders, both Indians and soldiers, pounding up the ravine past me. Whether my horse had been shot or stepped into a hole, I didn't know, but he was nowhere to be seen. I had to get to shelter.
Suddenly, I was aware of a horse coming at me. A savage face leaned down and I caught a quick glimpse of a tomahawk at the end of a brawny arm. I dodged back and down. The stone ax whistled past my face. The Indian wheeled his dun pony in a tight left circle, and I glanced quickly around for my rifle. The running battle had almost passed us by up the gulch. The Winchester lay a few yards away, but I could see there was no way for me to reach it before the savage bore down on me again. He raised the tomahawk, and I knew he was already counting coup on me and would brag in his lodge tonight of my fresh scalp lock hanging at his belt. I feinted to my left as if to dodge again, but at the last possible instant, leapt to the right in front of his running pony. One flying forefoot caught me in the thigh and spun me down in excruciating pain.
But the Indian had gone by me leaning to the other side. I rolled to my feet, ignoring the pain. As he wheeled his pony for yet another try, I half ran, half crawled to my rifle. I dove for it and rolled over, levering a fresh cartridge into the chamber just as he charged down on me for the third time. From a sitting position, I only had time to raise the rifle and jerk the trigger. The rifle jumped and crashed, and I flinched, waiting for the impact of the ax as the painted, glistening body came hurtling off his mount to land on me.
But the Sioux was dead before he hit the ground.
Breathing hard, I weakly rolled the lolling arms and legs off me. My .44 bullet had shattered a horn-shell necklace and penetrated just above the breastbone. He lay as if asleep, his black pigtails splayed out, the yellow and black parallel lines of paint forming a pattern on either side of the beaked nose. The heavy torso, streaked with sweat and dust, throbbing with life a few seconds before, was still, its spirit winging toward some unseen, happier land to join its ancestors.
But these thoughts were only fleeting, as I rolled to my knees, favoring my bruised thigh and gasping for breath. I had to get back to the shelter of my friends, or at least out of the open. The throbbing pain in my thigh subsided to a dull ache as I struggled to my feet. A slight tightness told me it was already beginning to swell. I tried t
o get my bearings. I was temporarily alone. What troopers I could see were scattered in a ragged blue line up the ravine. Up to my right, about a half-mile away on a hilltop, I could just make out what looked like a group of white civilians clustered behind a natural breastwork of rocks and firing to the east and north, away from me, at some unseen targets beyond the hill.
Gripping my rifle, I ran toward them. Or rather, I started jogging toward them on what was beginning to feel like a wooden leg. The terrain was steepening and over my labored breathing I could hear my heart pounding in my temples. I ran only about two hundred yards. In spite of the danger, I knew I had to rest. I sank to one knee, head down, sweat dripping off my nose into the bunch grass. My pale blue shirt was plastered to me in dark, wet splotches. The light brown corduroy pants I wore were gray with dust. My hat was gone. I cursed the hot boots that felt like iron, wishing I could trade ten pairs of them for one set of moccasins or infantry shoes.
Approaching hoofbeats brought me around to face some new danger.
"Hey, Matt!" I recognized Wilder's form on the bay as he galloped up to me. "Here, jump on."
He leaned down with one arm and I clumsily threw myself up behind him. The horse plunged away, nearly throwing me. I gripped his coat, still too winded to talk. "I didn't see you go down," he shouted over his shoulder. "When I was finally able to look back, you were having it out with that Indian, and I was too far away to do anything about it. Turned the troop over to Shanahan and tried to get back for you. Where's your horse?"
"Don't know," I yelled into his ear. "If he was shot, he didn't fall anywhere around me."
"You hurt?"
"Leg's bruised up. Nothing serious." I glanced to my right. We were now close enough for me to recognize the civilians as a group of our mule packers and miners behind the rocks. "Drop me with that bunch of packers. You can't carry double. I may not be mobile, but I can still shoot."
He nodded and turned his horse. I half slid from my perch, and Wilder spurred his mount away.
